


Progenitor

by Chiauve



Category: Cyborg 009
Genre: 2001 series, Adventure, Clones, Drama, F/M, Future Fic, Language, Lots of OCs - Freeform, M/M, Sexual References, Slow Build, Subjugation, Violence, Worldbuilding, cyborgs everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiauve/pseuds/Chiauve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Conclusion: Gods War, Albert wakes up alone in the distant future. Humanity has been wiped out and only Cyborg clones remain, separated into factions living in their own city states. Caught up in the politics of his own descendants' city, Albert becomes dissatisfied with the future he fought for and sets out with a band of misfits in the hopes of reuniting the factions and, most important of all, find his lost teammates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up

He saw stars. Clear and far above him, separated only by an endless expanse of cold. There was no sound.

Shouldn’t he be in pain?

Albert Heinrich lie on his back, staring into the night sky. Around him was nothing but flat earth, stretching every direction and unbroken in its monotony. Where was he? Where was his team? They had been fighting against monsters unimaginable and innumerable, wave after wave sent by that damn priestess, for survival, for humanity. Had he fallen from the floating island?

Had they won?

He turned his head, looking for any sign of his teammates. There was no pain, his injuries gone. Hadn’t he been injured? The tail of his red scarf lay twisted in the dirt beside him; he was still wearing the blue uniform.

Just then the droning sound of rockets, a flash of light and a body landing on hard earth.

“Hey! You alright?”

Albert whipped his head around to see a familiar redhead squat down beside him, a look of worry crossing his hawk-like features.

“Jet!” Albert said, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Relief flooded through him. Whatever had happened, whatever was to happen, he wasn’t alone.

Jet stared at him, mouth agape in surprise. “Wow, you must be an old’un. Nobody calls us ‘Jets’ anymore. Two-Gustav-2344 at’yer service. You were lucky I was passing by an’ saw you.”

“What?” Albert rolled to his knees and grabbed the other man by the shoulders, “What are you talking about? What the hell is going on? Where is everybody?”

“Easy, Meister,” the Jet doppelganger said, voice soft, “Look, I dunno what you were doing earlier but you’re too far from the city for this to be a drunk prank. Whoever left you out here meant business, it’s dangerous after dark for non-flyers. I know you didn’t call for me but I can take you back to the city an’ drop you off at the police station, okay? You should report who did this to you.”

Albert’s arms fell lifeless from the other man’s shoulders and he stared down at the dirt. “You’re not Jet, are you?” He didn’t know how that was possible, but even Jet knew better than to pull such a prank. The other cyborg wasn’t wearing a uniform, just a bright yellow jacket with a black-and-white checkered pattern across the shoulders and some worn slacks, the boots were a style Albert didn’t recognize.

The man hesitated, as though unsure how to answer. “I’m _a_ Jet, Gustav class. Are…are you hurt, Meister? Maybe drugged? I’ll take you to the hospital first, if you want.”

“No!” Albert cried. They would see what he was, realize he wasn’t human…

“Okay,” the false Jet held up his hands in placation, “but I need to take you back, we’ll figure out what to do from there, right?”

Albert could only nod, his mind spinning. He was alone with no idea where he was or what had happened. This could be a trap, using Jet’s image to lure him somewhere, but then wouldn’t the other cyborg pretend to be his friend? With no other information, going with the false Jet was his only option. Either that or staying out here.

With practiced ease, the Jet swept his arm behind Albert’s knees while the other supported his back and lifted him. Albert habitually swung his arm around the other cyborgs neck for support.

“Frequent flyer, I see,” the Jet smirked, then took off.

Albert’s artificial stomach lurched and then steadied as the aerial cyborg ascended, swung around, and flew westward. The farther they flew the more Albert realized he truly had no choice but to go with this man; there was nothing but flat wasteland no matter how far they traveled. Instead he turned to the other cyborg, like Jet in every way.

“What do I call you?” he said loudly over the rushing wind.

“Gustav,” the Jet regarded him with confusion, “I’m a Gustav class. Transporter, mostly of goods but I can do people as well. Orleans just don’t go out this far especially at night.”

What? “Okay, Gustav, and where are we going?”

Another confused look. “The city.”

“Does this city have a name?”

“Just…the City. The only one worth going to. Were you raised in a shed?”

Albert glared at him, and Gustav suddenly looked afraid. He ducked his head.

“Beg pardon, Meister, no offense meant.”

Jet or not, the submissive look didn’t belong on that face. “It’s alright,” Albert said, disturbed, “Let’s just say I’m not from around here, so if you could fill me in on some things I’d be grateful. And stop with that ‘meister’ business.”

“It’s policy, can’t change that,” Gustav’s smile returned as he realized he wasn’t in trouble, “but I’ll tell you what I can. I’m just a Gustav, though.”

Whatever that meant. “Tell me about this city.”

“The City of the Fours, the most technologically advanced of all the factions an’ the only city worth going to!”

“What country are we in?”

“Country?”

Albert was beyond frustrated now, but he was trying not to take it out on the aerial cyborg. “Where on Earth are we?” He still snarled the question.

Gustav grew frightened again, like he’d prefer nothing more than to drop Albert here and now. “I don’t know! The wastes outside the city, there is nothing else! I’m just a Gustav! I transport things over short distances I rarely go out this far but our Typhon squad had a food transport from the coast so the boss sent me out it was just a small package to an outlying colony that’s all!”

“I’m sorry,” Albert blurted before Gustav started rambling again, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m just…” so lost.

“Are you from the colonies?” Gustav’s voice was so low Albert almost didn’t hear him.

“No. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“We’re almost there.”

Light began to shine on the horizon, the dull, warm glow of millions of city lights, though the originating pinpricks Albert always associated with urban life could yet be seen. When the city finally came into view he could see why. It lay behind an enormous wall over which only a few skyscrapers could be seen. Gustav flew over the wall with no difficulty and then the city shone brightly beneath them, lights and streets and multistoried buildings that rose higher the farther inward they were from the wall, culminating in the skyscrapers that lit the night and blocked out the stars.

Albert missed the first time Gustav tried to get his attention, his focus entirely on the brilliant city and the lights of multiple rockets above it. 

Cyborgs. Flying cyborgs.

“You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital, Meister? Or the police?”

“I’m sure.”

“Where to, then?”

“I don’t know.”

Gustav kicked his feet out, coming to a halt and making a sharp turn to descend, and barely missed another cyborg coming up behind him.

“Asshole!” the other cyborg shouted as he passed.

“Keep your eyes open, you fucking tugboat!” Gustav snarled after him, his grip on Albert tightening.

Albert stared after the retreating cyborg, eyes wide. That was Jet. Another cyborg that looked just like Jet. What the hell was going on?

“Damn Typhons, think they own the skies,” Gustav muttered as he descended.

They landed on the roof of a five story building not too far from the wall in a residential area. Aside from the Jets flying around, Albert had seen a few standing about on rooftops here and there, as though waiting. Gustav set him on his feet and then jumped back, perched like a bird on the edge of the building.

“They’re Jets…” Albert murmured, staring upwards as streaks of light passed overhead, “So many Jets.”

“Twos.”

He glanced at Gustav. “What?”

“‘Jet’ is the old term. We’re called Twos.”

A disturbing thought began to worm its way into Albert’s mind and he didn’t like it at all. “You said your name was Two-Gustav-something?”

“Two-Gustav-2344.”

“And this is the city of the Fours?”

“Yep.”

He didn’t want to ask, suspecting he knew the answer, but, “Four whats?”

Gustav stared at him, eyes wide in disbelief. “ _You’re_ a Four. Most of the population is Fours. City of the Fours. You really don’t remember anything, do you?”

Albert moved to the edge of the building and peered down to the streets where people were milling about, some walking, intent on their destination, others stood in groups, chatting, while one or two stood on the corner waiting for something. Using his cybernetic vision Albert zoomed in on their features.

He only saw himself. They had different hairstyles and clothes but they were the image of Cyborg 004.

Albert stepped back and turned away, blocking out the view, and his legs went weak. He slumped to the ground and leaned against the short wall.

“My god…” he whispered.

Gustav peered down at him, worried. “You okay?”

“No, I’m not. They all look like me. _Why do they look like me?_ ”

Hopping off the wall, Gustav crouched in front of him. “Hey, it’s okay. I don’t know why you can’t remember, but of course they look like you. They’re Fours! All Fours look alike, just like all Twos look alike. How else is it supposed to be?”

Albert buried his face in his hands, “I don’t know what’s happened!”

Gustav shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know how to help you, Meister. You won’t let me take you to the hospital an’ I’ve gotta get back to the station, but I don’t feel right leaving you like this.”

“The station?” Albert said, mind numb.

“Yeah, I’m on the clock right now. Don’t worry about pay, I won’t charge you since you didn’t call for me an’ I was heading back anyway.”

Charge him? Albert eyes fell on Gustav’s yellow jacket with the checkered pattern and he understood. “You’re a taxi.”

“Yep, an’ I’m guessing you don’t have any money on you anyway. Whoever dumped you out there probably took your wallet.”

Everybody looked like him, except for Jets who were taxis. _The Jets were taxis_.

Albert wanted to cry.

“I don’t know what to do for you,” Gustav repeated.

“Wake me up.” He was unconscious. Some monster got him and he was lying on the battlefield dreaming about a city of doppelgangers and Jet taxis. That was the only logical explanation.

Lips pursed in concern, Gustav stood and stepped around Albert. He put two fingers to his lips and let out a long, high whistle. A moment, and then two short whistles came from the other side of the building. Gustav reached down and pulled Albert to his feet.

“There’s a couple’a Twos right over there, maybe they got an idea ‘bout how to help you.”

“Great, more taxis,” Albert muttered.

Gustav glared at him, “We’re not all taxis.” He walked ahead to the corner of the ramshackle sheds and the stairway entrance. Albert hurried after him. 

“What’cha got?” Gustav called to where the two whistles had originated.

“York and Noam,” came the reply in a voice that was, yet again, unmistakably Jet’s.

“Wow, a York!” Gustav said with awe, turning back to Albert, “I didn’t know there were any of those left! Come on.”

They came around the corner to find two Twos reclining against the low wall of the building, smoking. The first wore a heavy jacket and jeans, an eye patch over his right eye, and had noticeable scars on his cheek and over the bridge of his nose. The second had black hair and wore a sleeveless tunic, showing a vertical row of golden tattooed letters down each arm. Albert guessed it was nonsense considering his translator couldn’t make anything of it.

“Evenin’,” Gustav began, “I’m Gustav-2344 and this is…” he trailed off, realizing he didn’t know Albert’s name.

“Meister,” Eyepatch said by way of greeting before Albert could speak up. Oh damn, they were all doing it.

Black Hair offered a cigarette, “Wanna fag?”

Declining with a hand wave, Albert said, “Look, I’m sorry to bother you but there’s been a mix-up and I need some information. Mainly where I am and what’s going on.”

Eyepatch tossed away the butt of his cigarette and stood full height, arms crossed over his chest. He appeared taller than the other two despite the fact they were all the same size.

“Beg pardon, Meister, but why come to a couple of Twos for that? We aren’t the information type.”

“I found him in the wastes,” Gustav added, “I think he hit his head or something. He’s got no memory of anything.”

“That’s not what happened!” Albert hissed, “I was with my friends, I must have blacked out and I woke up out there,” he gestured beyond the wall, “My memory’s fine I just don’t know how I got here, much less where here is.”

“You didn’t know you were a Four,” Gustav muttered.

Eyepatch regarded him a moment. “Meister, what is your name, if I may ask?”

“Albert Heinrich.”

Black Hair snort loudly in derision. “Sure, and I’m Jet Link.”

Albert’s attention snapped to the third cyborg. “You know Jet?”

Licking his lips, Black Hair said nothing, but Albert picked up a thought on his internal receiver, short and sharp: _Is he fucking kidding?_

Albert was about to give an angry response when Eyepatch said, “We know of him. All of us do. He was our progenitor, the origin of our race.”

“Your race?” Despite the number of Jets he’d seen and the Fours below, Albert’s mind just couldn’t make that connection.

“We’re clones. All of us are made from Jet Link, just as the Fours are from Albert Heinrich.”

“Clones,” Albert repeated, mind spinning. He gazed out over the building, knowing that down below were a bunch of replicas living out their lives as though nothing was amiss. It did explain a few things, but, “Where are the people? The humans, I mean.”

“Humans died out ages ago,” Gustav said glibly as though discussing casual gossip, “Plague or something. Only cyborgs survived.”

“Can’t rebuild society with only nine cyborgs now can you?” Eyepatch added with a smirk.

One question answered, but a dozen more made in its wake. Why was cloning still required? Albert hardly liked to think of Francoise as a brood mare but surely a set of her clones would take an interest in a few of the men enough that a viable -if somewhat limited- gene pool could be established. Moreover, why were they all cyborgs? They weren’t born that way. Did the plague still exist that survival relied on cybornization? But that didn’t make any sense either; cybornization stunted growth and so far he’d seen only adults. If the plague persisted it would claim children too, else the human children would have survived.

Oh God. Humans were gone. Humanity had been wiped out ages ago.

_Ages ago._

“I’m in the future,” Albert whispered, horror creeping through his being and clinging like ice even to his mechanical parts. Somehow he’d been sent to the future. It was possible, Joe had done it, after all. Joe had also found a way back, and Albert intended to do the same. As soon as he stopped shaking.

“Meister?” Gustav said, lifting his hand as though intending to place it on Albert’s shoulder before he caught himself and let it drop.

“I’m okay.” He was trapped in the future in a city of his own clones and a bunch of Jet taxis, why wouldn’t he be alright? Taking a deep breath, he stood and regarded the three Jet clones. These men were the closest things he had to allies right now and he should work to maintain that. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your names.”

Eyepatch glanced over at Black Hair who shrugged and then back to Albert. “Twos don’t have names. We’re known by our class identification and the last four of our serial number if we need to separate ourselves from each other.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s just easier,” Black Hair snapped and tossed away the butt of his cigarette. He’d smoked it nearly all the way down to the filter.

“We’re made and cybernetically altered to perform specific tasks as needed by the city,” Eyepatch explained, “I’m York, retired fighter class. At’yer service.”

“Noam class,” Black Hair sighed, “Entertainment. Guess what I do.” His voice was flat and he pulled out another cigarette.

“Will you slow down?” York hissed at him, “Your lungs are real enough.”

Noam stuck his tongue out at York when the other man turned back to Albert and lit his cigarette defiantly.

“And you’re all clones?” Albert whispered, moving to the edge of the building and gazing at the skyscrapers in the distance, “ _All_ of you?” There had to be at least a million people in this city.

“Yes, just like you,” York said.

“Not like me. I’m not a clone, I had a father, I had a mother.”

York and Noam glanced at each other but it was Gustav who voiced their confusion.

“What’s a ‘mother’?”

Albert turned and stared at the Twos. “What?”

“A mother, what is it?”

“The…She’s the woman who gave birth to me. Raised me.”

“Okay,” Noam began, curious despite himself, “and what’s a woman? Is that some class I haven’t heard of?”

“You’re joking.”

“Noams don’t really do the joking thing,” York said.

Frustrated, Albert rubbed at his temple with his metallic fingers. “A woman, a _female_.” When the Twos continued to regard him with confusion, he couldn’t help but gape. “You’re _all_ men?” That explained the need for cloning, but what had happened to Francoise and her clones?

“Of course!” York said, almost affronted, “We may be cyborgs, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t men.”

“No, no. I mean, you’re all one sex? Do you have defined genders or is it even an issue?”

Gustav scratched his head. “Maybe you’re a professor at the university? You talk smart like one.”

“I’ve never heard any professor talk about something called gen-derr and I’ve slept with a few,” Noam said, “he sure talks a lot like one, though.”

“No!” Albert cried, “I’m not a professor and I’m not a clone! I don’t belong here and I just need to find my way back,” oh god he was shaking again, “Please.”

York stared at him intently, his one good eye almost piercing. “Not a clone, huh? You really do believe you’re the Progenitor, don’t you?”

“No, not _your_ Progenitor, so to speak. Look, I know it sounds crazy but I’m from the past. I don’t know what happened but I’ve been sent here from long before any of this,” he made a large sweeping gesture over the city and beyond, “back when there were still humans and only nine of us.”

Sliding his hands into his pockets, York kicked at a loose bit of concrete and stared out at the towering skyscrapers. When he finally spoke he sounded sad. “It doesn’t matter what we think; we’re just Twos. You’re gonna have to convince someone over there that your crazy story is true.”

“And what chance do I have of that?”

“I don’t know. Information and politics are beyond me. I’m just a York.”

Albert’s shoulders slumped; he felt so tired. “You all keep saying that.”

“It’s all we _can_ say.”

It seemed as though the world had shrunk and Albert and York were the only ones in it, and York was desperately trying to tell him something important. “I don’t understand.”

York sighed and the illusion shattered. “It’s getting late. I assume you have nowhere to go or else you wouldn’t be here with us.”

“Oh shit!” Gustav cried, pulling at a chunk of his red hair, “It’s late! I’ve gotta get back to the station! I _can’t_ get fired! Can you guys, uh…?” he pointed at Albert and looked to York, who nodded. Relieved but in no less of a rush, Gustav grabbed Albert’s hand with both of his and shook fervently. “Good luck Herr Fake-Progenitor, I still think you should get your head looked at.”

“Um, yeah, thanks for rescuing me,” Albert said, trying to free his hand.

“All the time! Nice meeting you,” Gustav added to York and Noam and then, jumping back from Albert, he took off, searing across the sky and disrupting a few other flyers in his haste.

“Reckless,” Albert muttered as he watched Gustav disappear in the distance, almost affectionately.

“Yeah, they’re all like that,” York said.

“Hm?”

“Gustavs. They also tend to have short attention spans, but they’re loyal. Look, Meister, if you’ve got nowhere to go I guess I could offer you my place for the night. It’s not much but I got a couch.”

Albert stared at him. He was suddenly very, very tired, but, “I don’t want to intrude.”

“It’s no problem. I mean, I’ve got a roommate but I don’t think he’ll care.”

Albert nodded, “I’m grateful.”

He didn’t know what he said, but York’s head whipped around and he stared at Albert, eye wide. He swallowed and turned to the other Two. “Noam, you got a place tonight?”

Noam took one last drag of his cigarette then dropped it, snuffing it out with a bare foot. “Yeah, I got a client in a half-hour, but if that don’t last long I know a Matthias down near the Sky Bazaar whose always got a spare cot.”

“Just don’t get eaten by rats down there.”

“Quit worrying, old man,” Noam said, though not without a little affection. He turned to leave, passing by Albert where he barely paused for a glance. “Meister,” he said by way of farewell, coldness creeping back into his voice.

It was then Albert noticed Noam had blue eyes. A black-haired, blue-eyed Jet. It looked odd, a purposely cold combination compared to Jet’s red hair and brown eyes that betrayed the warm personality beneath his thug bluster. Albert wait until Noam vanished down the stairs before he turned back to York.

“Friendly, isn’t he?”

York shrugged. “Noams are conditioned to be indifferent, so they can come across as a bit unfriendly.”

Alarms went off in Albert’s head. “Conditioned?”

“Yeah. I think the school’s changed though, because a lot of the newer generations are more approachable,” York explained, not understanding the worry in Albert’s voice.

“No, I meant…”

“Don’t worry about it,” York stressed. His voice was soft and once again carried that sad tone. Before Albert could say anything else, he clapped his hands together and said loudly, “Well! If we don’t dawdle we’ll be home in time for dinner! Mustang makes a great stew.” York turned to leave and Albert followed.

“Mustang?”

“My roommate.”

“Okay, but _Mustang?_ ”

“The Mustangs are the newer fighter class that phased out mine. He can come off as a bit brusque but I think you’ll like him. Come on.”

His boots clopping loudly on the steps, York vanished into the dark of the stairway. Albert paused and looked out over the bright city one more time. This was the future he and his team had been fighting for. Humanity long gone, cyborg clones, and Jets with stupid names. Behind him lay the wall and beyond that endless flat wastes. He hoped his team wasn’t out there too, looking for him.

Funny, that often he and the others would separate for years at a time and be alright. He would miss his friends, yes, but everyone had their lives and just the knowledge that there were others like them that they could count on was enough. Here it had barely been a few hours and yet he missed them all terribly. He hoped they were all right, wherever, _whenever_ they were.

York called to him and Albert followed him down into the dark.


	2. York and Mustang

Like most cities in Albert’s experience, the City of the Fours did not sleep, though it slowed and grew quieter as the night progressed. There were still people on the streets, though at this point they seemed as intent on their destination as he and York, but for all Albert knew this was simply how it was in a residential area. He had no idea what was going on in the city center, glowing like a beacon far away.

York led him down the street, hands in pockets and blue jeans turned grey under the orange light of the street lamps. A few cars passed by, large and boxy and lacking the smooth look that Albert had begun to adjust to in the twenty-first century. He stared as he noticed they had no wheels but hovered low to the ground.

“Meister,” York called, glancing over his shoulder, “Don’t walk behind me, get up here.”

Albert quickened his step until he and the Jet clone walked abreast. “What’s the problem? I don’t know where we’re going.”

“Fours don’t follow Twos. Either I’m behind you or next to you.”

“Why?”

York shrugged. “Just the way it is.”

“‘The way it is’ doesn’t sit right with me,” Albert muttered. He’d heard it too much growing up. Looking around, he saw mostly Fours, but here and there was a Two; one dozed next to some steps, curled into his jacket, and another indeed walked behind a couple of Fours, uninterested in their conversation and looking upwards at the lights of rockets above.

Albert watched them fly by as well, trying not to trip over his own feet. “I’m sorry for slowing you down,” he said to York.

“Hm?”

“You probably could have flown home by now instead of walking with me.”

York looked pained. “I couldn’t fly anywhere even if I wanted to. When not at war, the fighter classes are flight-locked. Only transporters get use of the skies around here, unless you get a permit.”

Albert stared. “You can’t fly?”

“It didn’t used to be that way, but one time I came home from war and they slapped the locks on our feet and that was that. I guess it’s to keep congestion down. The transporters crash into each other enough as it is. Also fuel’s expensive and we fighter classes aren’t exactly economical, you know?”

York’s lost flight ability was worrisome enough, but Albert found his comment on war alarming. “You’re at war? With who?”

“Nobody right now, though there’ll probably be another one soon, the economy’s kinda shitty. Good for me I can finally get this eye replaced,” he pointed to the eye patch, “They wouldn’t send a soldier out half blind.”

Not the answer Albert was looking for, but, “I though you said you were retired?”

“My _class_ is retired, but all fighters still get drafted. They stopped making Yorks a long time ago, replaced us with the Mustangs. Now the Mustangs are obsolete and were supposed to be phased out by the Kirin class but the Fours finally noticed that they’re shit for organized combat. I’ve heard rumors that they’re making a new class that’s supposed to phase out both the Mustangs and the Kirins.”

“You make it sound like Twos are manufactured en mass.”

York smirked at him and tapped his long nose. “Now you’re getting it.”

Anything Albert would have said in response was cut off as a Four dashed out ahead of them to the edge of the curb and waved his arm. A second later a Two in a yellow jacket dropped into the street before him and bowed.

“Two-Gustav-3641 at’yer service,” he said.

The Four looked surprised. “Oh, uh, I wasn’t…”

A flash of rockets and Albert stepped back as a couple more Twos, dressed in black and carrying a sedan chair on poles between them, lowered to the curb and landed gently, setting down the chair. The Two in front stepped clear and bowed.

“Orleans eastside cab number twenty-six, at’yer service,” he gestured to the chair, “Meister.”

Bristling, the Gustav pushed into the Orleans space. “Hey! I was here first, ya hackneys!”

“Oh please,” the Orleans sneered, “no one wants to be carried around like a sack of potatoes. This one’s ours.”

“Transporter rules say first come first serve!”

The Orleans snarled and pushed the Gustav hard, “Back off! Go find a garbage bin to deliver. There’s two of us and one of you. Besides,” he pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the sedan behind him. The second Orleans had opened the door and the Four was settling himself in comfortably.

The Gustav’s shoulders drooped in defeat while the Orleans repositioned himself at the front of the sedan chair. “By your leave,” he hissed, then swept a leg out to trip up the Gustav before giving a short whistle. The two Orleans took off simultaneously and rose steadily into the air.

The Gustav, standing alone in the street, cursed and kicked at the curb. Someone chuckled in the small crowd that had gathered to watch the altercation and the Gustav whirled around at the sound. Albert stared; he looked like he was about to cry. The Gustav launched into the air, his rockets sputtered dangerously before stabilizing, and disappeared into the sky.

“ _Hoppla_ ,” York said, “he’s getting low on fuel. Must be a freelancer; the stations wouldn’t let him get that low. He’ll be on the streets soon enough, if he isn’t already.”

“Does that happen a lot?” Albert asked, still staring after the Gustav.

“All the time. Usually gets a lot worse, that Gustav backed down pretty quick. Transporters are very competitive and Peacekeepers often get involved.”

“No, I mean Twos on the streets. Gustav 2344 was worried about getting fired and now that one.”

York slid his hands back into his pockets and kicked at the ground. Albert wondered if they noticed how often they did that, like they didn’t know what to do with their own feet. “Like I said, the economy isn’t too great right now and the problem with being a Two is that we’re built for specific jobs. If all the slots are all filled, well…” he shrugged, “We try, but sometimes it’s best to just give up on paying rent and sleep outside so at least you can feed yourself. Winter’s coming, though, so everyone’s scrambling. Even cyborgs don’t like napping in the snow.”

“Do the Fours have similar problems?”

York gave him an odd look. “Probably, just not to the same extent. Fours have the gift of versatility,” he paused, “Versi…? That is the right word, isn’t it? Anyway, don’t bother asking a Two about it, we aren’t informative types, I told you.”

Albert frowned at the blatant brush-off. “You seem to be doing well enough.”

“I’m a York.”

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to _mean_ , damnit!” Albert snapped, his frustration getting the better of him. He was tired and lost and had no idea how to even begin trying to get home, much less understand this foreign city of Twos and Fours.

York arched a brow at his tirade then tossed his hair back. He was going grey just above his ears. “It means I was made before they began to genetically alter Twos. I’m also older than most you’ll meet.”

“Genetically alter?” Albert asked, his frustration suddenly whisked away by developing discomfort.

York sighed then glanced around, making sure no one was nearby, before he leaned close to Albert and whispered, “A servant who is too stupid to recognize himself as such doesn’t complain much about it, does he?”

Albert shut his eyes. “How did that even _happen?_ ”

“Not here,” York said and pulled back before turning and continuing down the street at a quick pace, his strides long.

Albert stared after him. What the hell kind of place was this?

“Meister!” York called, impatiently waving Albert back to his side.

They arrived at York’s residence seven blocks from where they began and the difference was startling. The streets were dark, not from lack of street lamps but the fact that most were broken or burned out and had not been replaced. The number of people dwindled to a few small groups of Twos huddled in the dark, watching them pass with interest. Albert thought he saw the glint of a blade.

“Put your arms over your head, like your stretching,” York whispered to him, “Make sure they can see your gun-hand.”

Albert did as he was told, throwing in a yawn that wasn’t fake. York nodded minutely in satisfaction.

“The gangs around here prefer easy targets,” he explained, voice still low, “and a weaponized cyborg is too much trouble.”

Sure enough, when Albert glanced back, the small group had turned away, their interest lost. He saw a young Four among them.

York ascended the steps of a four-story building, thin and wedged amongst its fellows tightly that there was barely any space between. It was worn, but hardly run down and might have even been considered welcoming in daylight compared to the rest of the block.

“Home sweet home,” York muttered, pulling out a key and unlocking the door. 

Inside was clean but claustrophobic, barely room for the two of them to stand before they hit the stairwell. Next to them was a door to the ground floor apartment, a plaque with available hours posted beside it. York put his fingers to his lips and whispered “landlord” before he started up the steps.

One flight up and they reached the landing where the staircase turned 180 degrees and rose up to the second floor. The hallway ran flush with the stairs and Albert saw two doors. He’d thought, with the building so thin, it would stretch back from the street but he was mistaken. The rooms were undoubtedly small. He followed York up the next flight of stairs where a Two sat at the top of them, a thin magazine in his hands.

“Berlin,” York said as he approached.

The other Two glanced up. “Hey, York.” One eye was milky with a cataract.

“What’cha got?”

“No luck at all. There was a perfect job available down by Philo’s and I thought I had it made. I had the most experience of the lot and the best pedigree. They picked a Moscow. A _Moscow!_ ”

York smiled. “They’ll be regretting _that_ in a week.”

“Yeah, but in the meantime, if I don’t get this month’s rent in I’m out on the streets.”

York gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder but kept walking. “Hang in there, Donut,” he said, “You’ll be right.”

“Sure,” the Berlin sighed, dropping his chin in his hand. As Albert passed, he stared, mouth open. Recovering, he buried his face back into his magazine.

Albert tried to get a look at what he was reading. It wasn’t a magazine, but a booklet of available jobs. There were no words, but simple pictures showing different jobs, construction or a server at a restaurant, with a map beside it and a time under that. No dates, so he assumed new booklets came out daily. Shrugging, he followed York up the last flight of steps to the top floor. York went to the second door, unlocked it, and entered. He wait until Albert followed and shut the door behind him.

The apartment was remarkably clean and organized (Albert assumed its two occupants being military had something to do with that), but indeed very small. Two steps in and he nearly tumbled over the couch, placed in the middle of the room and facing a fireplace. There was a radio on a stand beside it, but no television. On the opposite wall of the fireplace was a large wardrobe set, made of cheap wood and without doors or covers, leaving its cubbies open. Shirts and trousers were folded into the cubbies separately, the available hanging space reserved for the Two’s uniforms, black and plain, save one that was covered in plastic. 

The couch formed a walkway to the back of the room where there was a kitchenette and the sleeping area, comprised of two bunks set into the wall on top of each other, like berths in a submarine. They were thin but long enough to accommodate a Two’s height, like they been built with the Jet clones in mind. Each had a curtain that could be drawn to give the sleeper privacy. There was only one window in the apartment and it was in the currently occupied kitchen.

A Two, Mustang, stood over the stove, stirring a pot of stew that filled the small apartment with its heady scent. Albert’s mouth started watering; he hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

“Welcome back,” Mustang called, adding a healthy amount of salt to the stew and not turning around.

“Hey, Tank,” York maneuvered himself past Albert and the couch, “You got enough dinner tonight for a third?”

“What? I barely got enough for two! What’re you…” Mustang turned, saw Albert, and froze, a spoon raised in his hand. “Meister,” he said, though in his confusion it came out more of a question.

He had cybernetic eyes as blank and translucent as Albert’s own, framed by metal plates reaching from the corner of his eyes to the arch of his ear down to his jaw. Albert could not guess their purpose, nor that of the prong of metal, folded like a lady’s fan, jutting out of Mustang’s head at an angle behind each ear. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, revealing two completely cybernetic arms, the gun-hands unmistakable. A weaponized cyborg, like himself, and it made Albert feel sick inside to see Jet, or at least his replica, like that.

Mustang set down the spoon and approached warily. “Hello. Mustang 9669, at’yer service,” he began, uncomfortable, and more obviously so as he transmitted, _What the hell is going on, York?_

“This is Albert, he’s had a bit of trouble and nowhere to go, so I offered him the couch for a night,” York said.

“I see.” Mustang looked Albert over, whatever he was about to say lost as his eyes fell on the German’s gun-hand and widened. “Is that…?” He reached toward Albert’s hand but paused, “Can I?”

Confused, Albert held out his hand and tried not to flinch when Mustang gripped it with an unnerving clank of metal, inspecting Albert’s palm and fingers with growing excitement.

“Oh wow,” he said, “this is original Black Ghost design. Look at the detail!” He pulled Albert’s sleeve down a bit and the 00 cyborg fought not to yank his hand back when Mustang peered down the finger barrels as though there was no danger. “Holy! This isn’t a replica, this is functional! Shit, Meister, this must have cost a fortune!”

Mustang released Albert’s hand and he couldn’t help but recoil a little, polite as he was trying to remain. Blatant adoration of his destructive capabilities was no less disturbing than the fear or his own self-disgust. The Jet clone didn’t seem to notice his discomfort but neither did he advance again.

“Your other hand,” Mustang continued, “does it have the laser knife?”

Albert sighed and held up his left hand, laser knife activated. Mustang made a terrifying _eee!_ noise of excitement so high pitched that only cyborgs and dogs could probably hear it.

“That’s fantastic!” he said, but again his transmission to York was one of confusion, _Tell me again why an obviously_ very wealthy _Four is staying here instead of a hostel or something?_

_Like I said_ , York answered, _he’s had some trouble. Doesn’t remember anything, didn’t even know we were clones._

_A colonial?_

_Maybe._

_Gotta wonder what they’re teaching out there._

Albert pondered letting his hosts know he was receiving their conversation, but decided against it. If there was a chance he could overhear something they wouldn’t tell him then he had to be able to take it. He must have latched on to York’s frequency when his translator program was performing its subliminal scan of local radio and now had access to his and Mustang’s channel. Not at all polite, but his survival was dependant on information and that was far more important than his manners.

“Hey,” Mustang said, an idea forming, “maybe you’re one of those re-enactment guys who go out and pretend they’re the 00 prototypes, or an actor! Your name’s Albert? Like the Progenitor?”

“No, I’m not an actor,” Albert said. The idea that people went around pretending to be his team was a disturbing one. He didn’t answer Mustang’s second question and almost expected York to bring up the fact that he claimed to be Albert Heinrich, but York said nothing. “There’s no problem with my memory, I’m just a bit…misplaced.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Mustang sounded sincere.

After hanging up his jacket, York leaned around Mustang and said, “Forget what I said earlier, Meister. He likes you; Mustang’s a pussycat.”

Mustang laughed and shoved York aside, returning to the kitchen. “Not when I’m on top!”

“Oh, uh,” Albert faltered, his face flushed, “Are you two together?” he asked York.

“No no, just roommates.” York shrugged, “I mean, we fuck on occasion because what else are we supposed to do? Here, have a seat. I’m being a terrible host.”

Albert moved around to the front of the couch and sat. He didn’t know what else to do. Save for the radio, there was nothing of entertainment value that he could see in the apartment, no books or magazines and no games. In fact, York and Mustang’s home lacked any personal touch; it was just a place in which they were supposed to live, nothing more. The only object of note was a saber mounted on the wall above the fireplace.

“I forgot the mail,” York sighed and reached for his jacket.

“Already got it,” Mustang said.

“Anything?”

“Nothing from the Finance Office, sorry.”

York replaced his jacket back on the hanger and slammed it onto the rack. “Abominations’ shit! They think we live on air?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got enough saved up to cover the rent myself this month.”

“I’m sorry, Tank, you shouldn’t have to. I’ll go to Military Finances tomorrow and see if I can convince someone I’m not dead.”

“That’s all the way on the other side of the city.”

“That’s three months’ worth of pension they owe me, and I need it. No one’s going to hire an old piece of crap cyborg like me, so I don’t see any other option.”

Albert felt very awkward. He’d been dropped into these two men’s lives out of context and was an intruder upon it regardless what York said. Maybe they just weren’t used to company. Waiting until they remembered him he had no choice but to ride it out.

Mustang switched off the stove. “Grab the bowls for me, will ya? And don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” York reached down and clasped Albert’s shoulder in a grip that was almost affectionate, “Come on, let’s eat.”


End file.
